


yet turning stay

by sinequanon



Series: telling tales [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: The revelation that there are supernatural creatures in the world doesn't really change things for Stiles or the rest of Beacon Hills until his best friend Scott is bitten by a werewolf.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the Chinese folktale "Legend of the White Snake". I wouldn't necessarily recommend reading that before this, because it might spoil it for you.

Stiles was twenty-one when when the world changed forever.

The revelation that creatures like vampires and werewolves existed was a result of a popular playboy “coming out” in a rather publicly bloody fashion in New York. The story might have ended there, easily enough dismissed as a youngster’s drunken stupidity, except that the vampire then proceeded to attack members of the press and employees of the hotel where he was currently staying. Someone caught the attacks on film, put the footage online, and within hours people were talking about the existence of vampires.

Things still might have ended without further bloodshed, except that a hunter family in Italy saw the video, took it as a declaration of war, and slaughtered the prominent werewolf family living in a neighboring town.

Almost worldwide violence had erupted by the end of the week.

In a way, a Stiles was lucky. California was one of the few states that didn't immediately pass open kill laws, and though many parts of the United States had adopted practices eerily similar to the Salem Witch Trials and dispensed justice like it was the Wild West, Beacon Hills remained mostly peaceful. Hunting was frowned upon within the city limits and more than one suspicious group had been run out of town since the whole thing started.

Of course, no one in Beacon Hills had come out as supernatural in the aftermath of that first bloody weekend, even though it was highly unlikely that the town was supernatural-free. Not that Stiles blamed anyone for keeping the secret; after the deaths in Italy, many hunting families touted their accomplishments loudly and openly to anyone who would listen and took any opportunity to reinforce that reputation.

Officially, there were no supernaturals in Beacon Hills. Unofficially, Stiles thought that anyone who actually believed that was fooling themselves. He had spent a lot of time researching in the past two years, and he was confident that he could identify most of the town's supernatural residents. The Walcotts, Dr. Deaton and his sister, the Mahealani family (who everyone knew were way too nice to be human), and the Hales were definitely on Stiles's short list of the not quite human.

Even before the great reveal, Stiles had made a habit out of watching the people around him, and he was well-aware of the many rumors surrounding the Hale family. There were a lot of them, for one thing, and so someone was always causing drama. When Laura became a deputy, people talked about her graffiti phase in high school. When Tristan became a horror novelist, gossips said it was because he either killed people and buried them in the Preserve or had experience because the Hale house was haunted by malevolent ghosts. When Patrick, an architect, moved home from Vermont, they said that he was escaping a girl that turned out to be a witch and that he was building them a new house so that they could get away from the poltergeists. Derek was evidently in a motorcycle gang, and Cora was on drugs.

And that was just Talia Hale’s _children_. The stories were even more outrageous about Talia and her siblings. His favorite rumor was that Peter Hale, a museum curator and Talia’s younger brother, was a government assassin who used the blood of his victims in his artwork. Granted, the man moved like a predator, but that didn't make him a killer.

(It did make him super attractive, though. In Stiles's humble opinion. Not that anyone was asking.)

<> <>

As horrible as it was to say, one of the best things in Stiles's life was hitting that dog.

Not the actual hitting of the dog, of course, that was awful, and hitting animals with cars should always be avoided, but it wouldn't be a stretch to say that Stiles's life changed for the better the night he took that injured dog Deaton's clinic.

Stiles had been to the clinic plenty of times before; his best friend Scott had worked there ever since high school, and everyone knew that the two of them were a package deal. In fact, Deaton had automatically looked behind Stiles as he carried the injured dog in, no doubt searching for Scott.

“Sorry, Doc, it's just me and Fido, here. Can you help him?”

The veterinarian gave him a kind smile. “I'll do my best,” he promised, and left Stiles to wait.

The problem with that, of course, was that Stiles was not very good at waiting. Only thirty minutes in, Stiles was itching to call Scott, or text Lydia, or anything to distract him from his boredom. He was worried about the dog, but there was also something unsettling about this place that Stiles could ignore when he was with Scott, but now…

There was a bang, and a thud, right outside the door, and if Stiles hadn't had a grip on the chair, he would have toppled over onto the floor. Stiles knew what gunshots sounded like, and that was definitely a gunshot.

For about half a second, he considered staying in his seat and calling the police before he moved to the door instead and peered cautiously outside. Stiles couldn't see anyone, but he didn't have the best vantage point from inside the clinic, either. When no more shots were fired, Stiles decided to take a chance and look around outside. It was probably safe, now, and there was no way he was about to let someone bleed to death just because he was nervous.

Carefully, he inched open the door and went outside, searching for whatever had caused the disturbance. He stepped slowly in one direction, then another, but nothing seemed out of place. Deaton hadn't come out, either, so he obviously hadn't thought there was anything wrong. Maybe Stiles was just being paranoid? He made one more cautious circle around the clinic before breathing a sigh of relief. He must have been keyed up from running into the dog, and--

“Holy---” Stiles yelped as he was grabbed and pulled back into the clinic. Caught off balance, he fell forward into the arms of whoever had grabbed him. He looked up, only to see Peter Hale glowering at him.

“What kind of idiot goes _outside_ when they hear gunshots?”

Granted, the man had a point, but…“I thought someone might be hurt,” he explained. “Why are you grabbing me anyway, and where did you come from?” Stiles blushed furiously as he realized that Peter’s arms were still around him, and he pulled away with a huff.

“I needed to see the doctor,” the older man said snidely, and Stiles was surprised to note that Peter was looking a bit more haggard than usual.

He opened his mouth to make sure that Peter was okay, but instead, he let his mouth run away with him. “You're a person, you need a human doctor.”

“Am I?” Peter asked, baring his teeth at Stiles.

This was the closest that Stiles had ever been to Peter, except for maybe casual passing on the street, and Stiles took a moment to actually look at the other man with fresh eyes. He was handsome, of course, but he carried himself with almost animal grace, and his eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence. It was very attractive.

“You think I'm attractive?”

Oops. Stupid brain-to-mouth filter. Oh, well. It wasn't as if a guy like Peter would want anything to do with him. “Of course you're attractive,” he acknowledged, “with your face, and your body, and your general you-ness,” he said, motioning with his hands.

Peter eyed him speculatively, and Stiles fought down the urge to fidget. He really hoped that Deaton would finish up soon and stop him from making a fool of himself in front of the older man. Instead, Peter just kept creeping closer until their faces were only inches apart. Stiles licked his lips.

“Ah, Peter,” Deaton’s voice rang out, causing the two men to jump apart. “If you'll wait for me in the back, I'll be right with you.”

The older man cast one last look at Stiles and sauntered out of the room.

“I'm sorry if he bothered you at all,” Deaton apologized. “Peter can be rather abrasive.”

“No, he was...mostly fine. How's the dog?”

The dog, thankfully, had relatively minor injuries (and a microchip), so Deaton would have no problems tracking down its owners.

“Not many people would do what you did for this dog,” the vet said lightly when Stiles expressed his relief at the news. “Scott is very lucky to count you as a friend.”

Stiles thought that _he_ was lucky that Scott put up with him, but he thanked Deaton anyway, and promised to come back to check on Fido in a couple of days.

Two days later, Stiles showed up at the clinic with dinner for Scott and rawhide for Fido (whose real name turned out to be Rufus). Scott let Stiles scratch Rufus behind the ears while they visited, and Rufus returned the favor by letting Stiles be his body pillow for the evening.

“So while you were rescuing dogs Monday--”

“Pretty sure I'm not a hero for hitting a dog, Scotty.”

“--I met a girl,” Scott's sighed, his face taking on a lovesick expression that Stiles recognized all too well from high school. “Her name is Kira. She's really sweet.”

“Sure. Where'd you meet her?”

“At the grocery store.”

“Just tell me you didn't meet her at the cucumbers,” Stiles snickered.

“Shut up,” Scott complained, laughing.

<> <>

Stiles had walked through the Preserve hundreds of times in his life. When he was younger, he had spent most weekends there, picnicking with his parents, playing with Scott, and exploring every inch of the woods to his heart’s content. As an adult, walking through the forest helped him clear his head when he was upset or stuck on a problem.

Stiles's current problem was trying to find Scott's inhaler, which he had supposedly lost during a romantic moonlight dinner with Kira the night before. According to Scott, everything had been going well when they had been attacked by some sort of wild animal, and Scott had lost his inhaler in the escape. So, like the good friend he was, Stiles was wandering through the woods looking for something belonging to Scott.

Just like old times, really.

Stiles was almost ready to give up for the day when he heard whining. Despite the town's general opposition to hunting, more than one beloved family pet had been caught in a trap left in the Preserve. Even if he couldn't save whatever it was, at least someone could be there when it--

Stopped whining to stare at him.

Stiles waited for growling, or snapping, or even more whining, but it just watched him like it was waiting for something. Still, he didn't want to spook it and accidentally hurt it more, so he approached as carefully as possible. Stiles didn't know a whole lot about foxes, but this one seemed young, and really fluffy, and kind of human.

 _Oh, shit_.

There wasn't much daylight left, and Stiles needed to figure out how the save this fox-person before the nighttime predators started roaming. Since he couldn't actually lift up the trap without hurting the fox, he was going to have to improvise.

“I don't suppose you know how these things work, do you?” he asked the fox, only to have it whine in response and gently nudge his hands with its head.

“That's okay, we'll figure it out and get you to Deaton's. You keep an eye out for stuff that could kill us,” he said, only half in jest, and received a bark in acknowledgment.

The day moved from dusk into actual night while he worked, and Stiles worried that something or someone would find the two of them a tasty treat if they didn't get out of the forest soon. The fox had taken to swishing its tail at him in what Stiles thought was encouragement, and Stiles felt a burst of pride as the trap sprang open.

Taking a moment to pull off his hoodie, he wrapped the fox in it and took off for his car.

Neither boy nor fox saw the glowing eyes hiding in the trees.

<> <>

If Dr. Deaton was surprised to see Stiles carrying another wounded animal into his clinic, he made no mention of it. Instead, he placidly took the animal from Stiles as if this was a normal occurrence and motioned for the boy to follow him.

After a brief examination, the vet set the fox’s leg and turned to Stiles with a smile. “It seems that you have saved a life tonight, Mr. Stilinski. With the influx of hunters of late, I fear our friend would have met a dire end had you not saved her.”

“So she's a _were_ , then?” he had suspected, of course, but it was nice to have confirmation. At Deaton's assessing look, he added, “I won't say anything to anyone.”

“I know you won't.” The veterinarian helped the fox to the floor, and she took off toward the bathroom. “And technically, she's a kitsune. A Japanese fox spirit.”

That brought Stiles up short. There weren't really any Japanese families living in Beacon Hills other than the Yukimuras. “You mean…?”

“Hey, Stiles.” Kira emerged from the bathroom wearing his hoodie and some shorts she had gotten from somewhere and stepped forward to give him a brief, tight hug. “Thanks for the save.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“Just, uh, looking for Scott's inhaler,” she said with a blush. “I figured he would need it back.”

Stiles smirked. “That guy would be lost without us.”

“He's worth it, though.”

“Yeah, I know.”

<> <>

The quest to find Scott's inhaler was put on hold two days later with the realization that Scott was now a werewolf, a fact that was made all too clear when Scott crawled into Stiles’s window sporting claws and an impressive set of sideburns.

After a couple of tense hours and some ruined furniture, Stiles finally calmed his friend enough to talk about the night he and Kira were attacked. Unfortunately, Scott's focus on Kira had kept him from noticing anything out of the ordinary until it was too late.

“What am I going to do?” Scott lamented after he’d relayed everything that he could remember. “I can't be a werewolf, Stiles.”

The human patted his friend on the arm. “Not that you have much choice, but I'll play along: why not?”

Scott looked devastated. “I'm too nice to be a werewolf!”

Actually, Stiles was inclined to agree with him. But still… “We’ll find someone to help you, all right? Don't kill anybody in the next few days while I do some research.” If nothing else, he’d ask Kira's mom for help, but there had to be at least one other werewolf in Beacon Hills, right?

“What if I hurt my mom? What if I hurt Kira?” He gasped. “What if I hurt you? You're my best friend, and if I hurt you…”

“Scott,” Stiles said, looking his friend in the eye, “there is literally no universe in which you would ever hurt your mom. Ever. I can use all of my cross-country skills from high school to run away if necessary, and I'm pretty sure Kira can take care of herself.”

At Scott's blank look, Stiles sighed. _Really_? “You need to talk to your girlfriend, but let's just say that if we can't find any werewolves in town, my next conversation is going to be with Mrs. Yukimura.”

<> <>

As luck would have it, help came to Stiles in the form of Peter Hale, who showed up at Stiles's house the day after his conversation with Scott.

“We should go on a date.”

 _What_.

Peter kept talking as he pushed his way into Stiles's house. “Yes,” he said, shoving some flowers into the younger man's hands and making himself comfortable on the sofa. “We can date, and I'll mentor Deaton's assistant, Scott. He's a friend of yours, I believe.”

“Why would you possibly want to mentor Scott?” Stiles asked dumbly, still trying to resolve the image of Peter at his doorstep holding a bouquet with the conversation at hand. Because while Stiles definitely didn't believe ninety-nine percent of the rumors about Peter, he also knew that the other man _wasn't_ nice. And flowers were nice. So nice, in fact, that Stiles was digging around for an old vase to put them in. He gave a small cry of success as he finally found one, and carefully arranged the flowers and vase on the kitchen table.

Peter watched the young man fondly as he rummaged around and muttered to himself, but didn't dare interrupt to answer his question. After all, it was well-known that Stiles was reasonable, except when it came to Scott, and Peter would rather not have a vase thrown at his head. He waited until Stiles had moved with him toward the sofa--and away from the glassware and knives--before responding to the younger man's question.

“I can help Scott because he's a werewolf. Like me.” He flashed his eyes as proof of his claim.

Peter watched as Stiles's face went through a gamut of emotions before settling on one the wolf couldn't decipher. “ _Really_?”

“You don't think I'm a werewolf?” Peter asked, crowding Stiles on the sofa until their thighs were touching. “Surely you don't think I'm the assassin the town gossips would like me to be.”

“I don't think that you're a killer, but you're not exactly tame either, are you?” He pushed Peter back to the opposite side of the sofa with a frown. “I don't care about that,” he said, ignoring the wolf’s smile, “I care about Scott. How are you going to help him?”

“Your attempts at helping your friend are inadequate,” the wolf offered, not unkindly. “I have been a wolf my entire life, and I can teach him more than you can learn through books and the internet. Of course, an untrained wolf is more likely to be spotted by hunters, which will bring danger to all of us.” He reached for Stiles's hand, and smiled a little when the other man made no move to avoid him. “He'll be safe with my pack, I swear it. I only ask that you keep our secret.”

Peter expected Stiles to complain about his friend’s training, or his lack of knowledge, or the need for secrecy, but the younger man surprised him.

“Are you trying to blackmail me into dating you?” Stiles asked instead, watching Peter carefully. “Because if all you want is for Scott to join your secret werewolf club, then I don't know why you're sucking up to me.”

Peter slid back toward Stiles, making sure he had the other man’s eye. “Do I strike you as a man who does things he doesn't want to do?” Stiles shook his head, and Peter smiled. “I care about Scott McCall only insofar as you care for him. I will love him because you love him, and I will train him well because mediocrity does not suit me,” he finished with a smirk.

“You're kind of creepy, you know that right?” Stiles asked, though he didn't try to push Peter away again.

“I look forward to proving you wrong when we go out on Friday night.”

<> <>

The date went better than Stiles had expected. They went to a small Italian restaurant two towns over with good ambiance and better food, and by the end of dinner, Peter had mostly managed to convince Stiles that the wolf sincerely wanted to date him, instead of merely courting him as part of the Scott-and-Stiles package. Peter was a perfect gentleman, and Stiles had to admit that he had enjoyed himself enough to agree to a second date.

For the second date, Stiles and Peter went out of town to a new Ethiopian restaurant that Peter just had to try. The experience was more exotic than Stiles was used to, but the meal was delicious and the conversation flowed easily between them. They talked about Peter's nieces and nephew, Stiles's friends, and the things they did for fun. The two of them discussed ways to help Scott, as well as ideas on how to further protect the town from hunters.

It wasn't until dessert during their third date that Stiles recognized the pattern: the dates were all in out-of-town places rarely frequented by members of the Hale pack. Peter always made sure that as few people as possible saw them together while they were in town, and talk of attending events at home were always expertly directed towards other topics.

Scott himself had just told Stiles how well things were going with Peter and the Hales, so…

That meant that _Stiles_ was somehow the problem. Was it a problem that Stiles was a decade younger than Peter? Was it because he was a man? Or human? Stiles couldn't let himself fall in love with someone who didn't trust him, no matter how appealing the prospective boyfriend.

Once he noticed the pattern, he wasn't about to ignore it, even if Peter's answer could be painful. “Why are you hiding me from your family?”

The werewolf blanched, but recovered quickly enough to keep Stiles's hand in his when the younger man tried to pull away.

“I have to say, you’ve done an excellent job,” Stiles continued, trying once again to retrieve his hand. “I didn't even realize you were manipulating me.”

Peter refused to let go. “I'm trying to protect you.”

“From your family?” Stiles frowned.

“From everyone! You are an exceptional man. You are not content with ignorance, and while that is one of the things I love about you, it also makes you a target for hunters and the supernatural alike.” He leaned forward slowly, giving Stiles time to pull away before barely touching their lips together. “Please let it go. For now.”

“I'll try,” Stiles promised.

<> <>

Stiles's date with Peter had ended on a somber--though not angry--note. Stiles understood survival, and the necessity of keeping secrets, but the night’s revelation had made him wonder if dating Peter was too risky, for everyone. Stiles told Scott as much during their weekly dinner at the clinic.

Scott listened to Stiles ramble like the good friend he was and only interrupted when Stiles got to the part about how dating Peter might be too dangerous.

“I like the Hales a lot, you know,” the wolf said, cutting Stiles off before he could continue that line of thinking, “but they're pretty intense. I can see why Peter was keeping you a secret.”

Really, Stiles wanted to avoid talking about this, but Scott had never let him down before, so he’d listen to what he had to say. “What do you mean?”

“Talia tends to be really wary of humans. She doesn't show it in public, of course, but, like, she discouraged me from dating Kira before she found out that Kira was a kitsune.” Scott stabbed his burrito in frustration, remembering the way the Alpha had lectured him for an hour on safety and secrecy. Talia was a good alpha, but--

“You're saying that Talia Hale would keep Peter from seeing me?” Stiles's voice cut into his thoughts.

“It's possible,” Scott admitted. “But it doesn't really matter, because you have to know that Peter loves you.” He grinned, and Stiles couldn't help but grin back. “It's kind of disgusting, actually, the number of questions he’s asked me about you in the past few weeks.”

Stiles blinked, surprised at the depths of the other man's feelings. “Oh.”

“It might also be a werewolf thing, because even though I know that Kira is pretty badass, I still want to, like, hide her in my bed underneath all the blankets to protect her from the rest of the world.” He shook off his heart eyes when Stiles elbowed him in the ribs. “It’ll work out, you’ll see.”

Stiles bit into his taco and tried to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: the conclusion of this fic and a one-shot crossover.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

After Stiles's talk with Scott, Stiles didn't see Peter for a couple of weeks. That didn't mean, however, that Stiles didn't see _signs_ of the other man.

First, his weekly groceries (along with a few extra treats) were deposited on his front step. Then, rare books and a bottle of wine. His jeep mysteriously disappeared one day, only to be returned the next in better condition than it had been in for years.

When Stiles showed up for the usual Scott-and-Stiles dinner at the clinic later that week, he was surprised to find both Scott and Deaton waiting for him.

“Sorry, Doc, I didn't bring you any food.”

“That's quite alright, Stiles,” he said, nodding at the paper bags the young man was carrying. “I don't think you're going to want to eat that, anyway. Peter's an excellent cook.”

“What?”

Scott took the bags out of his friend’s hands and gave him a gentle nudge. “Go home, dude, you’ve got a date.”

Stiles's brow furrowed. “No, I don't.”

Scott just grinned and gave Stiles a gentle shove toward the door. “Yes, you do. Go home before Peter starts calling me and asking where you are.”

Stiles drove home in a fog, because as much as he loved Scott, his best friend's words didn't make any sense. Why would Peter be making him dinner? At his house? Where anyone could see them?

And then it registered: _Peter was making dinner at his house where anyone could see them._

Stiles couldn't have said how he made it home, but by the time he had parked his car next to Peter's, his hands were shaking so badly he almost had to knock on his own door to get in. Peter must have been listening for him, though, because he had barely put the key in the lock when the wolf opened the door, and Stiles practically fell into his arms.

They held each other for a long while before the wolf cleared his throat and took Stiles's hand. “Let's eat, first. Then we'll talk.”

Dinner was excellent, of course, just like Deaton said it would be. Conversation flowed, though there was no talk of werewolves, and Stiles felt himself falling easily into the familiarity of Peter's presence. He could tell that Peter was still nervous, but only because they had spent enough time together for Stiles to recognize unease in the lines of the werewolf's shoulders.

An hour later, the pair had settled in the living room to watch a movie, and Stiles couldn't take it anymore. “I think I love you,” he blurted out.

The werewolf froze, and then a pleased grin slid on his face that Stiles couldn't help but return. Rather than respond in kind, however, Peter leaned forward with a possessive hunger in his eyes that made Stiles shiver, right before Peter proceeded to make him shake in other ways.

<> <>

Hunters came to town the week after the dinner at Stiles's house, keeping both Peter and Scott busier than usual. Instead of dating openly, the next month was full of midnight rendezvous and notes and trinkets passed via Deaton.

He was eating a grilled cheese sandwich when they came for him, waving their guns and scaring the other people in the diner.

“Stiles Stilinski, you have been accused of crimes against humanity,” the burly one snarled as he pulled Stiles to his feet. Everyone in the diner was staring at them, and Stiles tried to reassure the other patrons with his eyes while being scared out of his wits. Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that his feeble attempts to keep everyone calm were less than successful.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” another one sneered, obviously hoping that Stiles would do something interesting, like beg or cry. He wouldn't, of course. The people in here were scared enough.

“I don't think that really matters, does it?” Stiles answered, grateful that his voice was steady.

If these men took him (and everyone knew they would), Stiles knew there wouldn't be a trial. These men were going to take him somewhere and kill him. They would claim that Stiles had tried to escape, say that they had no choice, and no one would be able to prove otherwise.

Stiles was obviously not the only one following this line of thinking, because multiple voices broke out in protest, even as a set of meaty hands grabbed his arms.

“That boy is as human as they come. Why, if you’d seen the number of scrapes he had as a child--”

“...such a nice boy…”

“If his father was alive, you bastards--”

“It's okay,” Stiles broke in, shaking off the man searching him for weapons. “I'll be all right.”

He shot Joanna, the owner of the diner, an apologetic look for leaving without paying for his meal, but she just frowned sadly at him. Tiny old Mrs. Newgate reached out and squeezed his hand as the group passed.

He shot a weak grin to all of the people watching from the diner windows before one of the hunters shoved him into an old, beat-up van with blacked out windows and slammed the door behind him.

At first, Stiles thought that they were driving him out to the Preserve, like there was some kind of poetic justice in killing him like an animal or something, but they were going in the wrong direction for that. It took a few minutes for him to realize that they were driving him out of town.

It was actually halfway clever, and Stiles would have appreciated it more if he wasn't about to be murdered.

A few miles outside the city limits, the van pulled over to the side of the road. They forced Stiles from the van and into a nearby field before circling him like particularly vicious vultures.

“We're going to give you one chance to tell us where the fox is, boy,” Burly said.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Brawny punched him in the stomach, and he wheezed out a breath. “Are you sure?” Brawny asked.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he repeated.

“That's too bad. We're fair men, so we're going to give you a chance to run.”

“No thanks.” Stiles refused to give these men ammunition against him, even if every cell in his body was saying runrunrun.

Skinny joined in on the punching with some added kicking, and it took everything in Stiles not to fight back. He thought of Peter and Scott, and how much it hurt to be leaving them behind. He wondered if his dad would be proud of him for saving Kira, even if it had gotten him killed.

Despite the circumstances of his untimely demise, he had to admit that he was looking forward to seeing his parents again.

At some point, the other three hunters had joined in and started beating him as well, but he couldn't really feel it anymore. A well-placed kick to the head left him reeling, and he barely heard the cock of the gun before it went off.

<> <>

All day, Peter had felt on edge, like his wolf was scratching beneath his skin, trying to burst out. He had snapped at almost everyone at home before Talia had essentially kicked him out of the house and told him to run it off, and had only just made it home again when his phone rang.

“Scott?” The young wolf took a sniffling breath, and Peter's insides turned to ice. “Scott, what's wrong?”

Scott let out a choked off sob. “Peter, they killed Stiles.”

 _What_? The panic that Peter had felt all day roared back to life, followed quickly by a tide of dread. He pushed it down. It couldn't be true. He would know if Stiles was dead. “What are you talking about?”

“Some hunters. They thought that Stiles was a wolf or something, and they executed him! I should have been there. He was coming to my house later. I--” Scott cut off, only to burst into tears.

Head spinning, the older werewolf forced himself to take one breath, then another. “Are the hunters still in town?” he asked shortly.

“Yeah, Deputy Parrish arrested them for undocumented hunting, but…”

“That won't keep them in for long.”

“No,” Scott said sadly.

Peter thought about all of the time he had spent with Stiles, hiding him away from the rest of the world. He had been so proud of himself for fooling his family, for keeping Stiles away from Talia's judgemental eyes, that he had left his beloved without protection from those who would harm him.

He couldn't save Stiles, but he would get retribution.

“I assure you, Scott,” he said, a hint of growl in his voice, “that Stiles will be avenged.”

<> <>

Ten hours after the hunters who had killed Stiles made bail, five bodies were found in the woods, apparent victims of a mountain lion attack. Talia increased the patrolling rotation, concerned about a possible rogue wolf, and all Peter wanted to do was shake her for being so blind.

Laura, however, had always been particularly sensitive to his moods, and Peter guessed that she suspected him of the crime, even without knowing the reason for it.

Sheriff Tara Graeme was much more aware of the situation, and found him the next day at breakfast in the same diner where Stiles had last been seen.

“Are you going to arrest me, Sheriff?” Peter asked as they nursed their cups of coffee.

Sheriff Graeme regarded him silently, just long enough for him to get anxious, before smiling sadly. “I started working for the department when Stiles was three,” she offered. “It was my very first day on the job, and I was so nervous I was practically shaking. Stiles's mother had brought him in so all of them could eat lunch together, and he was running around like a miniature tornado. I was sitting at my desk, trying not to throw up, when I felt a tug on my pant leg and saw a chubby little toddler offering me a cookie and telling me that I was pretty.” She shook off the memory, eyes hardening. “As far as I'm concerned, you were within your rights to defend yourself from attackers. If anyone complains, Judge Garrison has always been ‘an eye for an eye’ sort of gentleman; I'm sure he'd agree with me.”

(The fact that the judge’s wife had taught Stiles in elementary school would, of course, have nothing to do with it.)

Peter was as surprised as he was touched. “I didn't realize Stiles and I were so obvious.”

The Sheriff smiled sadly. “Only to the people who loved Stiles the most.”

<> <>

A third of the town, it seemed, showed up for Stiles's funeral. Some were personal friends of Stiles, and others were friends of his father; the rest came in support of a young man who had been a victim of codeless hunters.

Talia was one of those who attended the funeral for political reasons, and it made Peter want to rip the still-beating heart from her chest. It irked him that so many of the attendees didn't even know Stiles, but used his death to suit their purposes. They didn't know that he preferred cocoa to coffee, that he still kept some of his parents’ clothes in his closet, or that he was smart enough to have identified most of the supernaturals in town, but compassionate enough to keep the secret.

Peter didn't want to be angry, but it was better than drowning in despair. He cursed himself for not sitting with Scott and his mother at the front, rather than with his sister in the back. By the time the funeral was over, he had listened to so many useless platitudes that he wanted to rip the whole room apart. When he couldn't take any more, he stepped out without offering his condolences to the McCalls, only to run into Kira outside.

“I'm so, so sorry, Peter,” the girl apologized, face ashen. “If he hadn't stopped to help me--”

The wolf’s heart gave a pang of sympathy for his beloved’s friend. “Then both of you would be dead,” he replied simply. “He would have done the same for anyone.”  
  
It was true. Stiles was the type to fight for what he believed in, to help where he could, and Peter had only hampered him by hiding him away.

Tears started rolling down his face as they stood together, but Kira was polite enough to ignore them.

<> <>

Scott, understandably distraught over the loss of his friend, did not visit the Hale house over the next few days, leaving Peter bereft of true companionship. He spent most of his time locked in the library, searching for a way to bring Stiles back to life. Unfortunately, most of them required methods that Stiles would disapprove of, staying Peter's hand.

With no direction, and no outlet for his grief, Peter felt his hold on sanity slipping away.

At some point during his occupation of the library, his sister brought him visitors. Normally, Peter would have enjoyed the confusion on his sister's face at the unexpected guests, but he ignored her in favor of the ones who might be useful to his cause.

“Noshiko, Marin,” he gave the women polite nods, “what can I do for you?”

“We apologize for disturbing you, but it is urgent that we speak with you.” Both women perched themselves lightly on empty spaces in the room, ignoring the disarray of the space and of him.

“The hunters that caused Stiles's death,” Marin asked bluntly. “Did you kill them all?”

Peter vaguely heard his sister gasp in shock, but he had no time or patience to soothe her delicate sensibilities. “Why do you ask?”

Noshiko glanced briefly at Marin before offering Peter a rueful smile. “After Stiles saved my daughter’s life, the two of them spent a great deal of time together. He was a good man.”

“Why are you here?” Peter inquired.

“You are not the only one who misses him. Alan and I attempted to use the nemeton to return him, but his spirit had not crossed over.”

Peter perked up for the first time since the funeral. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“We don't know,” Marin admitted.

“But it may mean that he will show himself to you,” Noshiko added. “No matter what form his spirit takes, we ask that you do not push him away.”

“I know that the two of you were private people,” Marin said, “not given to open displays of affection, but everyone who saw the two of you together could see how much he cared for you, and you for him.”

“We didn't--” Peter began.

“You didn't have to,” Noshiko chided gently. “I know that you are feeling unmoored by the death of your mate, but you mustn't forget that he still needs you. Don't give up.”

<> <>

Sometimes, killing the hunters didn't feel like enough. Sometimes, he wanted everyone who had a hand in keeping them apart to suffer: the hunters, the lawmakers, and the people who lived in shadows and fear. He wanted to claw Talia until she was nothing but bloody ribbons for forcing him to keep his relationship with Stiles a secret. It occurred to him that maybe if he killed enough people, someone would put him out of his misery, and he could be with Stiles again. It had been months, the pain hadn't lessened, and he still wanted to die.

Telling his family and his pack about his relationship offered him little comfort. Most everyone had been sympathetic and kind, and only when Talia had tried to use their bond as a lesson against mating with humans did he take a swipe at her, and then spent a week in the woods.

Every time he came close to giving in, he could hear Stiles asking him to take care of Scott. He's a puppy, Peter. He needs as many friends as he can get. Peter knew he'd obey his love’s wishes because he couldn't deny Stiles anything, even in death.

A year after Stiles's death, Peter checked himself into Eichen House, Noshiko’s words echoing in his brain. He still wanted to give in, but forced himself to wait for Stiles instead.

In Eichen House, he could scream and rage without being a danger to the people around him. There, they could give him things to dull the pain and help him sleep.

Still, he hated that he was locked in there, away from the last link to his love, even if it was the safest thing for everyone.

He certainly didn't lack visitors. Scott visited at least twice a week and his nieces and nephews came on the weekends. Deaton visited every other week for a game of chess. The only time Talia visited, she had held him and whispered apologies into his hair as he cried. It had been too draining for the both of them.

His days blended together in slow, monotonous routine, and the nights were filled with dreams of Stiles.

He waited.

<> <>

Noshiko came to visit him eighteen months after his beloved’s death.

She brought with her tales of a pale boy who trudged silently down the road, in jeans and a red shirt like Stiles had worn on the day he was killed. He walked with his head down, making no move to hail oncoming travelers. If anyone stopped and tried to speak with him, he would listen to them silently, and only when he raised his head would they see the blood on his face and the bullet hole in his neck. They noticed the gashes and the bruises and when they screamed or startled, he would vanish.

Shortly after the sightings began, the kitsune said, the deaths started. Hunters who tried to pass through Beacon Hills found their journeys cut fatally short, and people who associated with hunters found themselves seriously injured in unexplainable accidents.

“Have you heard the term _yurei_? Or _onryo_?” Noshiko asked. Peter shook his head. “In Japan, people who have died tragically or violently sometimes become _yurei_. They haunt the places where they died, or the people associated with their deaths. The worst of these ghosts are the _onryo_ , who often seek vengeance indiscriminately.”

“Are you saying that Stiles is one of these ghosts?” Peter didn't bother hiding the excitement in his voice. It hardly mattered to him if his love was a malicious spirit, as long as he had returned. “Will he come to me?”

“He seems tied to the road where he died, but he is not quite acting as that type of spirit might.” She frowned. “I blame the nemeton.”

“Of course he isn't,” Peter said proudly. “I can't wait to see him.”

<> <>

Scott was visiting Peter on the day that Stiles came calling. Scott, although he had yet to see his friend's spirit, regularly traveled the stretch of road that Stiles haunted in the hopes of finding him. He spoke to everyone who claimed to have seen the ghost, no matter their affiliation, and was even, he told Peter, considering holding a seance to speak to his friend. Peter soaked up every piece of information with the same joy that Scott felt at finding them.

The two wolves had been chatting for an hour when they first noticed the water trickling down the walls. The unobservant might not have noticed the way the water flowed faster with time, or that it fell down every wall, rather than just one. But for the wolves, who relied on their senses to survive, the change was obvious.

By the time those in charge had realized their mistake, that there was no leak to simply shut off, some rooms were half-filled with water. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the flow of the liquid, although the most perceptive people present might have noticed that the water flowed fastest where the cruelest people dwelled.

Scott and Peter heard the screaming long before they heard the click of the lock on Peter's door. They heard other doors swing open, and watched in vague amusement as various creatures fled toward freedom.

The two wolves moved carefully in the knee-deep water, following the sounds of the screams. Most doors they passed hung open, empty. Others were closed, and a quick peek through the window revealed the drowned body of the room’s occupant. A handful of staff bodies littered the hallways, likely killed by residents.

They encountered no resistance, and only after they had made it a safe distance from the asylum did they hear the crack just before Eichen House collapsed on itself.

Jenny, one of the oldest and most dangerous residents was waiting for them, and both men fought back shudders as they reached her. She smirked madly as if she knew what they were thinking, before her eyes softened. “You should give your young man my thanks, when next you see him,” she said, patting Peter's cheek. “I've never had much use for it, but I've heard that love is strong magic.”

Both wolves stared at her, shocked, even as she vanished between one blink and the next.

<> <>

It took nearly a week after the destruction of Eichen House for Peter to see his love again, though not for lack of trying. Despite his family's concerns, he slept during the day and wandered the road at night, stopping only when Scott, Deaton, or Marin forced him to eat.

It would not do, they said, for him to waste away before he could save Stiles.

There was nothing particularly different about that night to Peter's eyes, although there must have been, for Stiles to appear. People had been passing by all evening and yet suddenly, a car no different from any other veered off the road. The attack was almost instantaneous.

Peter had never been squeamish, but there was a distinct difference between hearing a friend tell you that your love had become a vengeful spirit, and actually watching that spirit take a life. It was frightening, and yet Peter felt a fierce pride watching his mate so effortlessly destroy their enemies. Still, such horrors were for Peter to commit, not Stiles. Stiles deserved to be protected and cherished, unburdened by evil.

The werewolf waited until the hunter’s screams had died out before approaching the young man.

“Stiles, my love,” he called softly, not wanting to offend or startle the spirit.

Peter had heard of the blood on Stiles's face and the hole in his neck, but he still bit back a cry at the pale, sightless eyes that stared back at him when Stiles finally lifted his head.

“I've missed you so,” he added. He didn't dare move, but he found the spirit suddenly before him, hand raised.

“Come back to me. Please,” he whispered, voice breaking on the last word.

Peter let his eyes slip closed as the spirit reached for him, only to flinch when he felt cool hands trace the contours of his face. His eyes flickered back open just long enough to see sightless eyes only inches from his own, and then--

There were soft lips against his. Cool, at first, but the longer they kissed, the more Peter could imagine that his mate was warm beneath him, and he made a noise of protest when Stiles pulled away.

“Peter.” There was a smile in Stiles's voice, and the wolf didn't want to open his eyes to see the spirit staring blankly at him. “Look at me, Peter.”

“I can't,” he breathed.

“Well, that's going to make sex more difficult, but I suppose we can work around it.”

Peter threw his eyes open to see the younger man watching him fondly. “Stiles?”

“I could make a crack here about the power of love or something, but I'd rather kiss you some more, if you don't mind.”

Peter definitely didn't mind.

<> <>

No one ever figured out how Stiles had managed to come back, though Peter suspected that a certain pair of druid siblings had a lot to do with it. Everyone in Beacon Hills knew the story of the boy who had been brought back to life by the power of love, and recalled the tale with pride to anyone who would listen. The details changed over time, of course, as all good stories do, but the end result remained the same. The town accepted the young man back with open arms, and its residents became so openly hostile toward hunters that very few even passed through the area.

Slowly but surely, the supernatural residents of Beacon Hills made themselves known (officially, because the people of Beacon Hills were not stupid), Scott eventually married Kira, and Peter and Stiles followed shortly thereafter.

There were no noticeable side effects to to Stiles's brush with death, but every once in awhile, when Stiles saw something unjust, a shadow would pass through his eyes, and Peter would grip his hand tightly and tug him back to himself. Then he would bend down, take the younger man's face in his hands, and kiss him ever so softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the poem "Remember" by Christina Rossetti.
> 
> Some people may have noticed that although my story is based on a Chinese folktale, the terms used to describe ghost Stiles are Japanese. This is because a) the story I wrote contains no elements of Chinese culture; and b) the character describing ghost Stiles is Noshiko Yukimura, who is Japanese, and would use terms familiar to her.
> 
> Next week: a Chris/Stiles/Peter fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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